Something on friendships:


Don’t you miss the time when we talked without defaulted answers?

“How are you?”

“Fine.”

“How is everything?”

“Fine.”

“What is going on?”

“Nothing.”

When the notifications that we liked each other’s photo weren’t the only things that told that the other person is still alive? When we didn’t talked in empty hearts as replies to chats and stories exchanged in months and left messages with a like of a heart as a courtesy to not leave at seen. A heart that was still red, but not with love maybe with obligation or courtesy.

And the fact that we follow each other on these stupid sites where we update events of our lives wasn’t the only thing told that we were still friends.

And when our conversations were longer, lengthy and meaningful with countless laughs stifled and aloud, and less awkward pauses of silence. When we didn’t—couldn’t run out of things to say. When this quietness that existed in between was breakable? I still think of the things we used to talk about. What were they really? Because I can’t remember them. Perhaps they have stayed back in the time with everything else.

When we didn’t give the excuse of not having time? When our happiness had a much brighter colour? And our smiles were different? More real and less formal?

Oh, tell me, don’t you miss being a friend?

Domestic violence; A poem

The gentle touch of his hand
Turned into scars
Which will fade,
But never erase.

Tears spilled on pillow
And dried
Again and again
Because his thumb won’t wipe them away

She loved and loved,
But never felt loved.

Next morning,
He will smile
A cup of tea or coffee on table
With a newspaper in hand
A kiss on the cheek
Just at the bruise
Like his lips are an aid

Ointment for bruised skin
What about the soul?

His eyes won’t flicker once
To the bruises.
Instead He will smile
Like, yesterday night
Was a nightmare
Which it was.
And like, it never happened.
Which it did.
Like always.

But the broken vase told the tale otherwise.

But she will smile back,
A stretch of lips with hidden tears burried
At the corners of eyes.
She will smile back
Because she loved and loved
And she never ran out of it.

She could not run out of it.